Inevitability
by tazia101
Summary: Sometimes, falling in love feels like a sunrise. It happens so slowly that you can't really tell when it started. You look back, trying to remember when you first noticed, and you don't know. But there are days that stand out, some mundane, others more extraordinary, and you realize that it doesn't matter when you fell in love, it was always inevitable. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1: Sharing a flat. **

_Sound was everywhere. Screams, explosions, gunshots, people shouting orders, everywhere there was noise. John ran through the trench, gun in one hand, medical bag in the other. Chaos. Confusion. People were going over the edge and falling back down, shot before they could take a step. The medical officers were doing their best, but they all knew it wasn't enough. People were dying, all around them, their screams of pain filling the trenches, twisted sounds that humans weren't supposed to make._

John shot up in bed, his breathing harsh, hand flying to his gun. For a moment, he was completely disoriented. The window was in the wrong place, it should be behind him. _Baker street, I'm in the new flat_. He brought his hands up to his face, trying to rub away the afterimages of the dream, trying to push away the memories that were threatening to overwhelm him. He was still holding the Browning loosely in one hand, which was hardly comforting. He looked at it, running his fingers along the metal. He'd killed a man with it yesterday, shot him through two windows to save his new flatmate, who was apparently insane enough to risk his life for a mystery. Then again, he was hardly one to talk. Everyone does insane things.

That was when he heard the sound, drifting up the stairs. It was soft, melodic, relaxing, the quiet playing of the violin. _Sherlock. _He grasped at the sound, using it to anchor him to the present. The song was a lullaby, and the lingering notes smoothed away the panic John had woken with, bringing back his fatigue. Slowly, he lay back down, and closed his eyes. He could see Sherlock in his mind's eye, the violin tucked under his chin, fingers moving over the strings. His eyes were closed, posture straight. John smiled in the darkness, and then sleep pulled him under. This time, he was untroubled by nightmares.

Ooooo0000ooooO

Sherlock was busy measuring the effect of moisture on blowfly larvae, when he was distracted by a door opening upstairs. He looked up, and the maggot he was currently working on wriggled off the Petri dish and fell to the floor. He glanced back and scowled, trying to replan the experiment to accommodate the loss of the unfortunate larva. It would be no use with dirt on it. He turned his attention back to the remaining maggots, pointedly ignoring John as he walked into the living room.

"Morning," John said, and Sherlock shot him a disdainful look, before turning back to the box containing the experiment. Apparently unconcerned, John went to the kitchen, and Sherlock heard him filling the kettle. It was strange, to be sharing a flat with someone again. Mycroft had ensured him a private apartment while he was in Uni, and since then, he hadn't been able to find someone that was willing to put up with him. Sherlock idly wondered how long John would last, and then decided that it wasn't worth a hypothesis. He returned to his contemplation of the larvae.

"Tea or coffee?"John called from the kitchen. Sherlock paused, surprised. He contemplated the question briefly, and then decided that there was no harm in a cup of coffee between cases.

"Coffee, black, two sugars," he replied, and John emerged into the living room with two steaming cups. He set one down on the table beside Sherlock, and peered into the box.

"Lovely," he said. "If any of them get on the floor, clean it up. I don't want to be stepping on maggots, this place is bad enough already." Sherlock looked up, first at John, and then at the room around them. It was a little untidy, sure, but it wasn't that bad, as far as messes go. He surreptitiously swept the fallen maggot under the carpet as soon as John looked away. There was an awkward silence as John sipped his tea, and Sherlock measured out the water for the last group of larvae.

Once the day's adjustments and measurements were done, he closed the box and put it under the coffee table. John eyed it distrustfully, but didn't say anything. Sherlock brushed off his hands on his trousers, picked up his coffee, and took a suspicious sip. It was very good, the paradoxical sweet bitterness colliding in his mouth, just the way he liked it. He looked up and met John's anxious gaze. Instead of words, he simply gave John a smile and returned to the coffee, finishing it off in seconds and setting the empty mug aside.

"I heard you playing violin last night," John commented. "Couldn't sleep?" Sherlock glanced over at the violin in question.

"Sleep is boring. I've trained myself to go without it for days." He saw the concerned expression on John's face, and quickly changed the subject. "Did I wake you?" He already knew the answer to that. He'd heard John wake up at 1 am, with a shout and the creak of bedsprings. That was when he'd gone for the violin, wondering what John dreamed about. The war, obviously, but what about it? Was it being shot in the shoulder? Or the patients he hadn't saved? Or the soldiers he'd killed in self-defense? Or simply the war itself, and no particular event?

He'd heard John lie down again, and had continued playing for half an hour, contemplating what he knew about the Afghanistan war. Very little, of course. He didn't pay attention to big wars; that was firmly Mycroft's area. Perhaps it was time to do a little research on his new companion.

"No, you didn't wake me," John said finally. And that was all. Sherlock drifted off to his laptop, and John turned on the television. The day passed without more interaction between them, but they were both aware of the other person's location at all times, their presence a faint comfort to them both.

* * *

_A/N: Hi, Tazia here. Thanks for reading this new story. I'm co-writing it with ticklethedragon1. I wrote this chapter, and she'll write the next, but most chapters will be written by both of us. We'll let you know in the author's notes who wrote what. And most of the chapters will be longer than this, we're just getting started.  
_

_Enjoy, review, and have an exiting day! See you next time for Chapter 2: Saving Each Other's Lives. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Saving each other's lives.**

Here was a fact that John Hamish Watson had recently discovered: Sherlock Holmes was hell to drive with.

Sure, he could understand a little agitation about wanting to reach their destination before '3:00 _sharp_, John! It is imperative that we drive without stopping', but things became a little more blurry when it came to the other perfectly sound fact that the driver in question had not slept in over 36 hours. For once, this piece of information was about John, not his madcap flatmate.

The blame fell fully on a particularly demanding case of theirs, one involving the presence of a deflated 'Happy Birthday' balloon, a pamphlet for volunteering in Africa, and a string of vicious murders. Completely unrelated, one might think, unless you happened to be the world's best consulting detective.

So if they got pulled over for speeding and happened to offer up an explanation, John could look forward to seeing the inside of a mental hospital for the rest of his life. Which happened to be one of the reasons why-

"You're not driving fast enough! John, you idiot! We'll never get there in time! Speed up!"

Oh, the words reached John's ears all right. His hearing wasn't the problem. It's just that, when you have a maniac as your navigator and you have slept in almost two days, that whole part about 'ignoring whatever ridiculous things come out of your mouth' becomes a whole lot easier.

"Sherlock, would you please do me a favour and be quiet? You're lucky I'm even agreeing to this."

This response was, predictably, given a less than favourable expression. "But _John_…!"

John cast a withering look in his friend's direction. "Sherlock, shut up, okay? I'm tired! This case has been bloody awful and you've not been better. It's not my fault this car barely goes past sixty. And you know, if you'd just accepted Mycroft's help for _once in your bloody life_, we could've been there by now, so just _stop yelling at me_!"

He breathed in deeply, surprised by the intensity of his outburst. Next to him, Sherlock flinched away, obviously hurt. That giant piece of air John had just sucked in came out as a sigh. "Jesus," he said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll see if we can go faster. It's not-"

"Let me drive."

John blinked, making an enormous effort to drag his lids open again each time. Honestly, he wished he could sleep for eons, except that the current situation would likely not allow for it. "What?"

Sherlock's gaze was level, those eyes of Christ-I-can't-even-tell-what colour staring straight in to the doctor's soul, face clouded in seriousness like whatever he was focused on was the only thing in the world. Okay, so that description might have been a little overdone, but John figured, when it came to the Holmes brothers, a flare for the dramatic never went unappreciated. Also, he was really _exhausted_.

Then that baritone voice spoke again. "Let. Me. Drive."

John managed to nod. "Fine, sounds good." How lovely, he'd almost ridden himself of that bitter edge when he spoke. No need to sound supremely pissed off when you were n- well, only a tad pissed off. He glanced at the digital display on the dashboard. "Lord, it's almost one in the morning." He sank in to his seat, eyes closed.

A sharp rapping on his window jolted him to consciousness once more. A very annoyed looking Sherlock was peering in, the dim light casting shadows to make him look more menacing than he actually was. "John," he said, the impatience made obvious in his tone, "The act of me driving requires you to switch seats."

"Oh… right," he nodded twice, as if to make himself certain that '_yes,_ Watson, _you_ idiot! _You need to_ move', before exiting the vehicle and promptly positioning himself in the near side. Sherlock gave him a pointed glance, already settled at the wheel.

"Just don't get us killed."

Sherlock sniffed, offended. "Not likely."

"Glad to hear it." John chuckled. He should really go to sleep now; delirium was starting to seep in.

And so Sherlock eased his foot on to the pedal, a gentle start-up before the alarmingly perilous drive. The detective noted just how much of a good thing it was that the good doctor remained sleeping for the majority. He wouldn't have heard the end of it and John would never let him near a vehicle again.

* * *

But all good things cannot last forever, at least not for a certain man with deadly sharp cheekbones and a desire not to have his precious concentration disrupted. Because it came to be that John Watson awoke at 2:30 in the morning to a crick in his neck and a psychotic detective intent on endangering their lives.

He blinked blearily, trying to make sense out of the blurs of red and yellow lights that seemed to dance in his vision. Then the vehicle swerved and he was rudely thrown against Sherlock's shoulder. "Fucking hell! You're going to kill me!"

His flatmate ('_Why on Earth did I move in with him_?') bore the expression he did when he was deep in to a chase. The intense way his eyes stared ahead, flickering side to side, seeing everything. The furrow of his brow as he frowned ever so slightly, as if he was seeing a miniscule smudge of dirt on the window that had not been properly cleaned. Under normal circumstances, John loved that look, or, at the very least, had a healthy fondness for it. It signified the sheer brilliance of Sherlock's mind, and the thrilling sensation that came with viewing it. Unfortunately, it also meant that there was nothing in the entire existence of the universe that could distract him.

"John, get off me." his voice was cool.

John did, but only because the latest turn was so sharp as to fling him against the window of the passenger side. "Slow the fuck down!"

"Time, John." There was no inflection in his tone.

Couldn't he see how _dangerous_ this was? Horns from the numerous cars they were passing burned in to John's ear. "Fuck the time, Sherlock, you're going to get us killed! This is idiocy! You know, that word you're always using? You're being one right now-" His eyes focused in on an object in the outskirts of his vision. "Sherlock- oh! – bloody- fuck! Fuck! Sherlock! Sherlock! _Sherlock_!"

There was just enough time for John to see Sherlock's eyes widen, and his hands spinning the wheel quicker than John had witnessed anyone else. He'd reacted with a speed unknown to most, yet not fast enough.

The truck rammed in to the passenger side of the car and sent them careening in to the ditch. The airbags deployed, smashing him in the face. There was a long horn blast; John couldn't tell who'd sent it. Someone might have screamed, but it was not clear whom.

They stopped. John was distinctly aware of being upside down. If he hadn't been so numb from the shock, he might have noticed a pain in his head, but all that he was able to focus on was-

"Sherlock." He forced out, turning his head a minute distance.

The detective's eyes were closed, and a dark liquid trickled down his face from an unknown region. John carefully studied him, the icy clench of fear settling in when there was no reply. "Sherlock, you alright?"

There was a pregnant pause, allowing for a good dose of rising hysteria for his friend. Still he said nothing.

John mustered up all the strength he could in to forming his cry of "Sherlock!"

His heart got caught in his chest and after that, everything seemed blurry. He could recall the sound his body made when he unbuckled his seat belt and fell on to the ceiling. He remembered shoving against the door to break out of the vehicle, and how it had hurt. How he'd dragged Sherlock's limp form to the safety of whichever space was closest. Despair, at being unable to locate his mobile. Relief at seeing the uninjured truck driver phone 999 using hers. That stone-in-water sensation of dread upon seeing the extent of his flatmate's trauma. '_Too much blood_,' he'd thought, '_really shouldn't be here'_.

John had choked back the memories of Reichenbach and pavement and that horrific phone call in order to assess Sherlock's clinical state and put pressure on the wounds. It was all too similar to him, his mind screaming against the scene. Their car was in ruin; the glass from the windshield had found its way underneath his skin and the blood from those little cuts was staining his hands. Sherlock had not regained consciousness but still managed to keep breathing.

Until -because nothing could ever be _simple_, could it- about two minutes before the paramedics were set to arrive.

John, of course, was none too pleased with this development.

"Come on, Sherlock," he rasped, "just do this one thing for me, okay? I know you find it boring, and simple, and beneath you, but please, for the _love of God, keep breathing_!"

His hands made fists, nails digging in to his palms. The woman from the truck watched him uncertainly, dialling emergency services to inform them of the change. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered, not if he died. So John did what he could, and damn if he didn't try his hardest.

The ambulance arrived not much later, to a man bent over a body, respiring for two people at once, and a tearful woman standing by, idle fingers fumbling over a mobile.

They told John they'd handle it from there and he was permitted to ride in the ambulance with his friend, while they checked him and the other driver over for injuries. Later, once they arrived at the hospital, he was told by an unusually chipper doctor: "You probably saved his life."

* * *

Sherlock was released from the hospital about a week later, largely due to Mycroft's involvement. He was upset about losing the tail end of the case and had taken to turning any word in to a whine. He remained despondent on the subject, even though Lestrade had informed them that 'his men had it covered'.

John too had been in a decidedly bad mood since the whole thing, but he was there to escort Sherlock out of those glass doors and back to Baker St, albeit discontentedly. The doctor figured it was something about almost losing him (again) that had made him less than eager to go _anywhere_ with the detective. Or do _anything_, for that matter. No cases, nothing. John Watson was not in the mood.

Because of this, he ended up reclining in his chair, with a book in his lap that he'd stopped actually reading an hour ago. His eyes skimmed the words, and he turned the page regularly, but if he was being honest, he'd forgotten if the main character was a neuroscientist or plumber.

Hell, what did it _matter_ anyway? It's not like it was even that good to begin with. He'd been spending too many hours watching his flatmate deduce, and had figured out the entire plot within minutes. What he needed was a good distraction, John thought to himself, casting a sigh towards the warm light of the hearth. The flame was small, having deteriorated in to glowing embers. Downstairs, a door slammed and the sound of rushing footsteps became audible.

And suddenly, there was Sherlock, his tall form swooping in all-dramatic like with his huge coat and that godforsaken scarf. John folded the book in his lap, gaze drawn to him.

"John, we have a case! Lestrade wants us to meet him at the old sawdust factory at 6:00!" Came the outburst from a vibrantly expressive face.

John just stared, counting his breathing. He wasn't entirely sure where his anger had come from, and he was doing his best to subdue it. "Sherlock, I'm not going."

A frown. "Why not?"

If it sounded this stupid in his head, it would sound way more so aloud. "You almost died, Sherlock. And you made a promise not to."

There it was again, that tiny crease in his brow. Sherlock was puzzled. "I don't understand the relevance, John. Didn't you hear me? We have a _case_!"

It wasn't fair that he could look so innocent when he was excited. "Yeah, Sherlock, I heard you." how best to say this? "It's just, you promised."

Way to go Watson. Go ahead and sound like a whiny teen why don't you?

"John, I do not think I," there was a considerable pause here, "get what you're saying. Correct me if I'm wrong. You feel upset because I broke 'my promise'; presumably you're thinking of the car when I said I wouldn't crash or get us killed. I did not, in fact, 'promise' those things, and besides, John, what would be the problem if I had? I crashed the car, but if I remember correctly, neither of us took it to such drastic extremes as to _die_." He sneered this bit, as if it were insulting to him. "You should put down that book now and come with me. This one looks interesting.

Oh, and that thing about subduing the anger? Yeah, you can just toss that in the rubbish bin. John was on his feet now and practically fuming.

"Yeah, no, Sherlock, you've got it wrong. What I'm _saying_, you idiot, is that _every_ single time we go on a case, you always have to put yourself in the most stupid positions! You say you're going to be careful, but that's a bloody lie, isn't it? Last week proved that! Except that time, there was no excuse, because honestly, you could have stopped being so petty for once and just fucking accepted Mycroft's helicopter or something! And I'm sick of watching you _almost_ die… hell, I'd give anything not to even be reminded- and that's another thing, Sherlock! I know Reichenbach was a long time ago, but it'd be really nice if I didn't have to be fighting a fucking flash-back every time you do something stupid!"

"John-"

But he was like the soldier he was now, and wouldn't stop until he deemed himself finished. "No, no, _no_! I'm _not_ done! You have no fucking concern for anyone's safety, Sherlock, and that includes your own! We both could have _died_ in that car, and you just waltz out like I didn't have to do _rescue breathing_ on you! And I'm sorry that _stopping breathing_ wasn't such a drastic extreme for you, okay? But it fucking terrified me! So you know what? I can't just forgive that! Forget about the case, because I'm not going."

"John." Was it just him, or did the detective's voice just crack?

"Go." Said John, turning away. "You can solve this one without me."

And to his immense surprise, Sherlock did. The detective lingered in the doorway for a single, minute second, before turning the collar of his coat up and stalking out. His friend watched him leave.

'What have I done?' John thought, sinking back in to his chair. He still hadn't typed up that serial killer case on his blog. Perched open on the desk, the task seemed quite daunting. But at least it would give him something to do. Now that he'd blown off some steam, he should get the news out there. Their fans were undeniably curious (though his followers were somewhat smaller in numbers since the whole 'Moriarty thing'). He eased himself upright and headed over to where his laptop rested, typing in the password that Sherlock had guessed within _seconds_.

His email came in to view, and since John didn't have a normal life, of course there was a threatening message from the suspect of Sherlock's case. Of course there was. Of course it was the criminal, threatening to blow up that sawdust factory, along with everyone in it. Of course it was. Because fate fucking _hated_ it when John stayed home.

He was out the door in seconds, not even thinking to put on a matching pair of shoes so that he could look passable in public. What a convenience that both their phones had been destroyed in the crash. What a coincidence that he didn't think of calling Greg. Things always happen for a reason, at least when the world's greatest consulting detective is around, even if those reasons are completely shitty.

"Montgomery Sawdust Factory." He instructed the cabbie, heart acting like it was hosting a rebellion against his chest. "Get me there in ten and I'll give you a hundred."

They were there in seven.

John burst out of the door, flinging the cash towards the very happy and puzzled man, who promptly thanked him and drove away. Not that John would know. He was already a good distance from the road, sprinting towards the crime scene as if his best friend's life depended on it. Which it sort of did.

The officers at the scene looked sideways at him, a panicked middle-aged man with one brown shoe and one black welly, but thankfully let him pass.

"Sherlock!" he shouted once inside. "Sherlock!"

There wasn't a peep from anywhere, aside from the echoes of his voice. John resumed his course.

It wasn't hard to see how an explosion could be set up there. Decades old layers of dust and wood chips scattered the floor and any other available surface. It was clear that the place had been condemned for a seriously long time. But what drew John's attention the most was the _heaping pile of dynamite_ that had now become visible _right in front of him_. Oh, and there was the criminal, sitting atop it all, grinning at him.

"Hi." He said, "I was wondering when you'd turn up. It was kind of cute, to be honest. Loyalty tends to be." The murderer paused, chewing his lip in thought.

"Where are they?" was what he asked, and it must have been quite the sight. A short man with an oatmeal jumper and two mismatched shoes glaring at a ginger headed criminal who was giggling from his perch on some highly explosive items. It could have been something in a storybook, if someone had so wished. But no, the last person to do fairytales was Moriarty, and John had vowed to personally strangle the next criminal to even venture _close_ to said genre.

"You might want t'go find them," the red head suggested, as if advising John on how to locate a missing pet. _God_, he had really bright hair. So neon, it almost hurt to look at. "Won't be long now and I'm starting the countdown. You stay here and it won't be pretty."

John met his eyes for a moment longer, the criminal tilting his face to the left. '_Jesus Christ, his hair_.' After that, he bolted from the room, taking the route closest to him. He did not glance back.

"Let's start at ten, shall we?" the criminal's youthful voice echoed in the vacant space. "Ten…"

'Shit.' John thought, veering to the right. It was getting pretty hard not to crash in to a wall; corners seemed to pop up out of nothingness. Where the hell was Lestrade when you needed him? Or a loudspeaker. Yes, wouldn't that be nice. Unfortunately, neither was available to John at the moment, so he had to make do with just his lungs. "_Sherlock_!"

"John!" the voice came from behind him. He had just entered a narrow corridor, with a million rooms adjoining. He almost managed to turn around, so _damn pleased_ that he'd found him, when an impressive force tackled him, diving in to an alcove labelled 'Exit' and forcing him to the ground. "Cover your ears." came the whisper from the man that was crushing him. John complied.

At that moment, there was a gigantic BOOM noise, and the sensation of a million strikes of thunder whipping through the ground. All the while John laid there, a detective and his obnoxiously thick coat on top of him. And then it was over. A sense of quiet came over him and sound seemed to disappear.

Sherlock was the first to speak. A low chuckle as he rolled to one side, apparently amused by the turn of events. "Well, it seems as if we're even."

John frowned, dragging his sore self up to standing position. "What do you mean by that?"

"You save my life, I save yours; wouldn't you say they cancel each other out?" he was upright too, the back of his coat dirtied by the blast. That didn't stop the great git from attempting to straighten his scarf, though.

John had to snort at that, shaking his head. If Sherlock didn't get it now, when would he? "Yeah, but both of those were your fault."

"You're being ridiculous, John." Sherlock declared, "I just made sure you didn't die in that explosion."

Okay, he could concede on that point. "Still doesn't mean I forgive you."

The detective had been walking away. This made him stop to glance back. "But we're getting there, surely?"

The doctor nodded. It wasn't as if he could say 'no'. His wave of panic had subsided now that the worst part was over and simply being in Sherlock's presence was calming. "We're getting there."

There was an exhale of relief. "Good." Sherlock said, and pushed open the door. How very good for them that it led to outside. Figures. The detective strode out confidently, heading towards Lestrade's confused armada of police and a very upset looking Anderson with- was that a _chef's_ uniform? John would have to hear the story of that later. He couldn't help himself; he laughed. Somehow his mirth reminded him of the ridiculous criminal with his ridiculous hair colour. He laughed even more.

"John, are you coming?" Sherlock was peering at him was one eyebrow raised in expectation, and he had halted where he stood.

John looked at his flatmate, then at the smoking factory, and then at his flatmate again. He took several steps forward, until he was where the other man stood. He gave a terse nod at Sherlock and they went off together.

"Did you see the criminal?" John asked him in a whisper.

Sherlock gave him a knowing look and then broke in to hysterics.

* * *

_AN: So that took an extraordinarily long time. Sorry about that. I'd blame it on First Time fanfiction nerves, except that's just a horrid excuse and isn't really true. But… it's here now, so , and this is ticklethedragon1. _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: Texting Constantly.**

John. SH

John. SH

John. SH

Sherlock, I'm on a date.

Why? SH

Just stop texting me!

That doesn't answer my question. SH

Sherlock, I told you to stop texting me, I'm busy!

I'm bored. SH

Then, I don't know, bake a cake.

No, wait, I take that back. Stay out of the kitchen.

Cake is for Mycroft, John, surely you know that by now. SH

I haven't eaten cake in three years. SH

But… Birthdays? You know what, never mind, we'll talk about it when I get home, just stop texting me! I'm trying to talk to my _date._

Obviously you prefer to talk to me. SH

John, who are you even with? SH

Is it that hair-lady? SH

Because she's cheating on you. Probably. SH

She's not cheating on me, and her name is Lisa.

Please sign your texts. It's easier to know if it's really you. SH

Of course it's me, it's my phone. You know what, I'm going to turn off my phone now. We'll talk when I get back.

Remember the St. Matthew's case? Signing is important. SH

Don't turn off your phone. SH

John? SH

John, please come home. SH

I need you. SH

What kind of 'need'? As in, 'I need someone to pass me a pen' or 'I'm bleeding, I may need stitches'? JW

You know that I always need you. Though, now that you mention it, I probably shouldn't have tried to make that cake. SH

John, at what point does a burn require medical attention? SH

I'm coming home. There's no fire, I hope? JW

Oh, finally. Not to worry about the fire, I put it out. SH

I'll be there in 5. Don't poke the burn this time. It makes it worse, remember? JW

You realize that my memory is three times more accurate than the average person's? SH

That doesn't really matter when you keep deleting everything I tell you, does it? And I'm here, by the way. JW

If I delete it, you just tell me again. What? Oh, good. SH

Oooo000oooO

When John came home from that oh-so-dull date with Lisa, it was very obvious, right from the start, that something was wrong. Mrs. Hudson was in a flurry, cooing and clucking about the rent and 'I don't know what he's been up to this time, but I don't think it'll be easy on the furniture'. Later consultation with the detective himself told John that she'd been out of the house when the fire department had been called and returned home a little after 8pm, oblivious to the entire thing.

"A most fortuitous coincidence," Sherlock had said. John had simply glared.

"The flat's a mess," he'd said.

And indeed it had been. The walls were stained dark with smoke, the cupboards partially burnt away. The oven… The one time it got used, and Sherlock had managed to completely destroy it. Black peelings of metal broke off to the touch, and with the streaks of varying degrees of monochrome, it was hard to tell what the misshapen lump of appliance _used _to be. There was also a new smear of yellow on the wall, which would later be revealed as icing.

John had walked in, taken one look at the place, blinked several times, turned away, and looked back again. "_Fuck,_" he muttered under his breath. His brain was already reeling at the estimate of how much the repairs would cost them.

"I'll just use Mycroft's account," came a baritone drawl from the sofa. There was a pause. "No, I didn't read your mind; your face was being obvious. Now come over here and fix my hands."

"What did you _do?"_

The expression Sherlock gave him was one of withering scorn. "What you suggested, clearly. Irrelevant. My hands hurt."

"Yeah…?" The ex-soldier was having a hard time processing the scene in front of him. He still hadn't moved from the doorway.

"I was baking a cake, John." This was said in that tone of voice that made it clear just how much of an idiot he thought you were. "Come on, they're all red and puffy."

If he had been a better doctor, he might have focused on the fact that he was dealing with a burn victim here. If he had been a better soldier, he might have wanted to deal with the kitchen first. If he had been a better flatmate, neither of them would have been there right then. So John decided to be a better nothing, and fixated on the crux of the matter. "A cake. _You _were baking a cake?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkles, and he twisted himself around so that he was sitting upright on the couch, instead of lounging horizontally. "Yes, we've established that. Now fix my hands."

It took a good few moments for John to collect himself, before hanging up his jacket and coming to his friend's aid. Once he did so, he knelt on the floor, becoming level with Sherlock's knees. He held his palms out as a gesture for the detective to meet them with his own.

His hands were, indeed, quite burnt. And also, half-covered in yellow icing.

"I don't know how you managed to survive alone. I leave you alone for two hours; the fire department's been called, the stove's in tatters, and you somehow get your hands scorched."

"You can be quite melodramatic at times, John."

John fixed him with an incredulous stare. "Says _you._"

"I believe you're thinking of Mycroft."

"Speaking of which… he kidnapped me again. Wants you to take this case of 'highly pressing national security'." Sherlock groaned.

"Please do not speak of my brother while I'm injured. It doesn't help the healing process. What did you say to him?" A smirk played around John's lips.

"I told him I'd tell you, and that you'd think about it, and then you'd refuse."

The detective chuckled, and withdrew his hands from John's. "Did you really?"

"Yeah. Happened yesterday. Didn't want to mention it then."

"You shouldn't have at all."

"_You_ shouldn't have been playing in the kitchen. Lord knows that Mrs. Hudson is going to kill us."

"Kill us? Our landlady?" Sherlock shook his head as he made his way towards the door. "I should hope not. Even a dull case like that might prove too difficult for the Yard to handle. And since I wouldn't be there… they'd have no hope." John shrugged.

"Who knows? Maybe they could recruit your brother. Or Anderson could be a hidden genius or something."

"Stick with the 'or something,' John; it's much less disturbing," he said, while tugging on his coat.

The doctor had to notice the peculiarities of his flatmate's face when he scrunched up his nose like that. It was really very… Did he actually intend to go out with his hands all injured like that? John glared. "And where do you think you're going?"

"To the Yard. Lestrade mentioned he had something interesting for me." As he strode into the hall, John darted forward and caught the elbow of his sleeve, tugging him around.

"Um, no, Sherlock. Hands, remember? Bathroom, with me, now." And the detective sighed as he allowed himself to be dragged away.

So that was how they got here, with Sherlock sitting on the side of the bathtub, and John kneeling in front of him, careful doctor's hands turning over Sherlock's multitalented ones. His flatmate had received varying degrees of burns from his escapade in the kitchen-"_Cake, John! It was all for the cake!"-_ and had been consequently subjected to a half-hour of examination.

"You're an idiot, you know," he finally said. Sherlock shot him a withering glance. Under normal circumstances, it might have been considered insulting, that I-am-dealing-with-morons look. Luckily for John, it was tempered by Sherlock's impatience to get the examination over with, so it made him look more like a scolded puppy. John held his gaze for a moment, before shaking his head and tying the last of the bandages. "Finished," he declared proudly.

The detective held up his hands for inspection, turning them over in the air. Red and yellow splotches of damaged skin were now covered in a wrapping of white. Apparently, the sight was distracting. "It looks strange," Sherlock muttered, eyes narrowed. He glanced up. "John, why does it look strange?"

"It's called _gauze, _Sherlock. It helps." Normally, one was supposed to take the afflicted person to the hospital to treat second-degree burns, but John had decided that he could deal with it with home supplies. The thought of subjecting any poor nurse to treating his friend was a bit less than pleasant, and Sherlock certainly wouldn't go easily anyways. "Guess I won't be woken by Bach at odd hours for a while, then." John grinned when his flatmate denied him a response. "I'd keep off that for at least two weeks."

Sherlock just scowled at him.

"I _would _tell you not to use it for longer than that, but I have this feeling you wouldn't listen." This earned John a smile. Just a small one, the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitching upwards ever so slightly.

"Good deduction, John."

"Yes, well, thank you. Now what are we going to do about the kitchen?"

The detective only smiled.

Oooo000oooO

Greg hopped out of the police cruiser, and headed up the steps of 221 Baker Street. He hesitated for a moment, then brought his knuckles to the door three times. The landlady answered it almost immediately.

"Hello, Detective Inspector," she smiled. "Here to see Sherlock? That's good, he'd been awfully bored all day. John's at the clinic, and you know how he gets when John's gone. Mind the experiment on the carpet, I almost stepped in them myself." She stepped back, letting him inside.

She had given the two men plenty of grief over the 'cake incident,' which had ended up on John's blog under the name of 'The Adventure of the Yellow Cake,' despite Sherlock's displeasure with its publication. However, two months later, the flat was back to normal, thanks to Mycroft's cooperation, and Sherlock's hands were back to normal, thanks to John's help.

Lestrade made his way up the stairs, and hesitated a second time, before tapping on the door.

"Busy," Sherlock's voice intoned. Lestrade closed his eyes for a moment, begging any deity there was to give him patience. Sherlock was obviously in an unhelpful mood today. He opened the door and stepped in. As he'd expected, Sherlock was lying on the couch, fingers flying over the keyboard of his phone. He barely spared Lestrade a glance, before devoting his attention to the screen. "I said I was busy," he muttered.

"Busy _texting? _There's a case, Sherlock. We need your input, I've even kept Anderson off the scene for you."

"Must be important," Sherlock mused. Before Lestrade could confirm it, the infuriating man barreled on. "Unfortunately, John's in a meeting right now." That gave the DI a moment's confusion.

"You can do the case without John," he said. "You've done it before."

"You misunderstand me. John is in a meeting, so I'm texting him every twenty-three seconds." You thought you understood the consulting detective, and then he came up with the strangest things, sending you all the way back to square one.

"What?"

"It's a tradition," Sherlock explained, his fingers already tapping away again. "He finds the meetings boring, so I text him every twenty-three seconds, giving him something else to focus on. Instead of thinking about how bored he is, he's wondering what I'm texting him. It's quite ingenious, really."

"What are you saying?" Greg asked, curiosity getting the better of him. Sherlock tossed the phone to him, and he caught it.

"I'll give the texting a break and let him think that I'm finished. You have three minutes with the phone." Lestrade scrolled through the texts, a smile growing on his face as he pictured the doctor finally getting out of his meeting and reading the texts.

John? SH

John, where are you? SH

I looked up, and you were gone. SH

Of course, your meeting. SH

I need a pen, a blue one. SH

The rats have escaped. SH

Don't use the shower when you get home. SH

I'm bored. SH

Still need a pen. SH

Did you know that I've never had a case with a butler as the culprit? SH

The world needs more murderous butlers. SH

John. SH

Why aren't you answering my texts? SH

Lestrade is at the door. SH

Now he's on the stairs, he must have a case for me. SH

He's in the apartment. SH

John, we have a case, I need you. SH

I asked you for a pen ten minutes ago. Where is it? SH

The phone suddenly vibrated in Greg's hand, displaying a new text. He looked down at it, then up at the dark-haired man sprawled across the couch. "John texted you back," he said. Sherlock leapt up and snatched the phone from Greg's hand, whirling away to sit back down, eyes fixed on the screen. Eventually, he began to laugh. Greg stared in disbelief, the low chuckle strange to hear from the self-diagnosed sociopath that he consulted on a regular basis.

"What's so funny?" he asked. Sherlock didn't even look at him, back to typing on the phone, keys making a constant clicking sound under his fingers.

"John," Sherlock said. Aaand… back to square one.

"What?"

"John is amusing when he's angry." The smile was audible in the words, and the answer completely threw Lestrade for a loop. Sherlock Holmes, amused by another human being for anything other than their stupidity? It was unthinkable. But then again, John Watson seemed to have turned the world upside down, so perhaps nothing was impossible anymore. "I'm coming with you," Sherlock added.

"Oh, now you are? Well, that's just brilliant." Lestrade started to lead the way out of the room. "What changed your mind? Decided to give poor John a break?"

"He's meeting us at the crime scene," Sherlock answered, and swept out of the room ahead of Greg, collecting his scarf and coat on the way.

* * *

_A/N: Hi, Tazia here again. To give you the who-wrote-what of this story, I have to break it into three pieces. Part one, with all the texts, I wrote John and ticklethedragon (my co-author) wrote Sherlock. Ticklethedragon wrote part 2, the aftermath, and I wrote the part with Lestrade. _

_Review, please! It's very easy to get discouraged when no one is reading! _

_See you next time for Chapter 4: Eating Together _


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4: Eating Together.**

The detective paced back and forth, his brows drawn into a frown. He wore his trademark coat; John had always thought it was the colour of the London sky. Of course the collar had been flipped up. Combined with the not-eating-on-cases and his pale skin, his flatmate looked like a vampire. All the while he shot off deductions like he was a contestant in a filibustering contest.

"Colours, colours, colours…" Sherlock muttered, his intense gaze cast upon the section of the floor where the most recent victim lay. It had been a particularly brutal case, and Sherlock was having a rough go of it. The killer had been leaving them clues, but none of the people murdered seemed to have any connection to each other, and the consulting detective still hadn't found the answer. "All this… jealousy, anger, sadness. The killer obviously knew there was a correlation… but what _was _it? Too simple for a straightforward motive—no, this one was done by an artist; I said that on the first day. But… colours? John, come take a look here."

The doctor swallowed his displeasure and stifled a sigh, shuffling over for the fifth time to where Sherlock stood. "Alright, what am I looking at now?"

"The _colours, _John! What are they?"

John squinted at the other man. His eyes were widened, dark curls tangled beyond belief. He looked insane. John had counted the number of times his arms had been thrown into the air in the past five minutes; it was twenty-seven. All the detective was missing was some foam around his mouth and he could pass for rabid.

"When's the last time you slept?" he asked, ignoring the question.

Sherlock's fervor dropped, and he scowled. "Irrelevant; it's a case."

John let out a huffing sigh, crossing his arms. "Sherlock! You can't just-"

"_Colours, _John!"

He wasn't giving up that easily. "How about eating, then?" The only reply that got was a glare. The doctor stared at the detective, eyes narrowing. The detective stared back. "I'm taking you to dinner," John told him. "Tell Lestrade we'll be back."

"But-"

* * *

Forty-five minutes later ("46.35, to be precise," Sherlock noted), they were both seated in a little Italian diner with crimson candles mounted on any flat surface available. John was more than certain they conflicted with several safety regulations, but hey, he lived with a self-diagnosed sociopath.

"See," he told his unimpressed flatemate, leaning a bit over his menu. "I told you it would be nice for a change."

But Sherlock didn't miss a beat. "And I told _you _that digestion slows down my thinking process."

John cast his eyes to the ceiling. "We're not going there again. I already had to deal with that in the cab." Sherlock didn't answer. He really did look uncomfortable; he was still wearing his coat, even though it had to be at least 30 degrees inside. The detective shifted on his seat, as if he were going to burst out the door any second. Pale ocean eyes drifted towards the exit. John's own followed his gaze.

"No, Sherlock. You're staying right here, and take off your coat."

After a pointed glare thrown in John's direction, he did. The next few minutes were spent in silence, and John almost let out a sigh of relief when the waitress arrived to take their drink orders. She was a short, messy-haired girl, with a petite figure. Almond brown eyes raised themselves to the pair, blinking once, long lashes brushing her cheeks.

"Just water for me, thanks," John managed to say.

Across from him, the detective frowned.

"Sherlock?" John prompted.

He gritted his teeth. "And I'll have the same."

The waitress smiled. "Alright, great! My name's Maggie, by the way, so if either of you have any problems…" She trailed off without finishing her sentence, seeming to melt into the background as though she were scared. When John looked next, she was gone.

"She reminds me of Molly," Sherlock said with a frown.

John raised an eyebrow. "I… I'm not even going to reply to that. Do you know what you're going to eat?"

"Must I?"

"Been over this."

"Food, I suppose."

"Getting closer. I think the spaghetti Bolognese looks good; there's a picture on the second page." John pointed.

"Too. Many. Calories."

The doctor squinted, then blinked. Then squinted again. "You're not anorexic, are you? Because—I mean… I know you… with the… um…" he lowered his voice slightly, "drugs and all, maybe. I mean that's not to suggest that all anorexics are dr- you know-"

Sherlock looked at him evenly. "I can assure you, I have no eating disorders."

"Oh, um, sorry," he said, relieved. "Well, that's good."

There was a pause.

"I'm getting that fettuccini dish with the olives."

"Mm," came the grunt.

Maggie was approaching again, John noticed, her dark hair pulled back in a loose style. It was a very pretty look on her. Oddly enough, that wasn't what John was focused on. In fact, he was only noticing in the back of his mind, as he studied his stubborn friend. In that instant, he made an executive decision.

"That's it!" he declared. "I'm ordering for you."

The waitress had arrived, and was now hanging about behind Sherlock. She carried a tray with two large mugs of water, and was in the process of setting them down when she spoke. "So, is there anything I can get you two tonight?"

It was rather relieving how professional she was, even as she lowered her gaze demurely. Not a single inappropriate move towards his flatmate. Not one. He supposed he should have been used to the flirting by now; so many people just couldn't keep the sharp-featured detective out of their minds. For goodness' sake, he couldn't take Sherlock _anywhere_ without some girl (or bloke, for that matter, he would never forget the time when they went to a gay bar for a case) trying to jump him then and there. So yeah, it was a nice change for once, to have a server who _didn't _make eyes at the detective.

John met her eyes and held them for the duration of the order. "Two fettuccines with olives and that…" he stumbled," sauce I can't pronounce."

"Awesome, I'll be right back. Enjoy your waters!"

John thanked her as she darted away, and turned back to Sherlock, who was in the process of sulking.

"Come on, you'll be the better for it. You needed a break anyways."

Sherlock ignored him, staring out the window at the street beyond. At this hour, there was still plenty of activity to be found. Pedestrians shuffled hurriedly, cars honked their horns, and every so often, a siren could be heard in the distance. John listened to one now.

"Grrnsn," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"_Gregson, _John. That's Gregson in one of those cars; it's his shift."

John appraised him with an amused expression. "I'm not even going to ask how you knew that."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense. Learning which officer's on when, it's incredibly useful." He wrinkled his nose. "We might miss Lestrade if not. Wouldn't want that to happen."

"Yeah, but you already memorized his address. Technically, we could reach him at any time."

"Details, John, details."

John had to smile at that.

Their conversation continued amicably for the next little bit while the kitchen prepared their orders. Things were going swimmingly; Sherlock was even drinking his water! Never mind that John had to threaten him with spending Christmas with Mycroft to do so. Once, John made a comment that the detective found so immensely funny that he choked on his water and it came out his nose.

John wished he had a picture of his face after that. The extremely dignified Sherlock Holmes had _not _looked pleased.

Eventually, Maggie came back with their pasta, setting down the arrangement with great ease. John found her service oddly pleasing. She had a genuineness about her that made her enjoyable to be around, even if she was just their server.

"Hope you two like it," she chirped.

"Undoubtedly," John replied, eyeing the dish. Across the table, the detective dipped his head slightly, just enough to signify agreement. Beaming, Maggie tucked a piece of hair behind her ear shyly, and left them.

The doctor dipped his fork into his swirling mass of fettuccine, bringing it to his lips. It tasted like heaven. He suppressed a not-very-public-appropriate moan at the pleasure. Sure, he might criticize Sherlock for not eating, but when was the last time _he _had eaten a proper meal? On cases, the best he got was some porridge from the police department, or half a plate of Chinese before they had to dash out again. Simply put, this was the best thing he'd eaten in days.

Sherlock seemed to be enjoying it too, John noticed. In fact, there was a spot of rosy sauce on his nose, that John found himself staring at, quite fixedly. It was very distracting.

"Uh, Sherlock, you've got…" John motioned to his own nose. The detective's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, John, I have a nose. How very observant of you."

John let out a sound of exasperation. "No, I mean- agh, just let me help!" He shook out his napkin, reached across the table, and dabbed the sauce off.

Sherlock stared. "Oh," he said.

John's cheeks reddened. It wasn't exactly _normal _behavior to wipe Italian sauce off your flatmate's face, after all. Not for completely straight males, that is.

"So…." He said, trying to steer the conversation in a direction that would allow him to recover inconspicuously. "What can you deduce about Maggie?"

"Maggie?"

"Our _waitress?_"

"Ah, right," Sherlock nodded, like everything made sense now. "She's at uni; fifth or sixth in her class, obviously smart, but look at her demeanor, her clothes; she's insecure, too much so to become top of her class, had some home troubles to establish this. Parents divorced, lived with her mother. She studies English or Philosophy as her minor, but takes Biology as well. A little lost in her career directions, she's way too comfortable in her waitress position. Types a lot at home, not a computer, typewriter, the indentations on her fingers are different. Also, in a relationship with another woman."

John's eyebrows made a five-second visit to the moon while he struggled to process what his friend had just said. "You're unbelievable," he told him, "absolutely unbelievable. And incredible, that was…. Incredible."

Sherlock tried to shrug it off, but John could tell he was pleased. He had an aura of smugness about him, like a cat that's just curled up on your newspaper. "Textbook, John. She was an open book, as they say."

John went back to eating his pasta.

* * *

On their way out, Maggie stood by the door to wish them off. "Bye," she waved, pulling a strand of hair behind her ear. "Have a nice night!"

Just as they had reached the street, Sherlock stopped and turned around to face her. "That girlfriend of yours," he said, "don't let her get away. She really cares about you."

Maggie's face contorted into shock, then confusion, stayed on confusion for a while, and then she smiled. Unfortunately, by the time the latter was reached, the boys of 221B Baker St. were already in a cab, headed back to where they came.

* * *

**Half an hour later.**

John watched as Sherlock's eyes widened suddenly, his pupils enlarged from the adrenaline of activity. "I've got it!" he shouted. "Synesthesia!"

Oh, how he loved it when he was the only one who understood Sherlock's technical ramblings.

"Confusion of the senses? So what do the colours mean, then?"

"Exactly the question, John, good work."

Lestrade stepped forwards. "Please, do explain."

"Quite simple, really. Once you have one piece, the rest falls into place. If we can figure out what each thing means to the killer, it will lead us to the next potential victims! Lestrade, since you're so woefully ignorant, I will enlighten you and your colleagues. Synesthesia is when the stimulation of one of the senses causes the brain to stimulate another sense. Hear colours and see music, for example. Our killer has set up a painting of the senses for us to puzzle out. The colour corresponds to the number of the next house. Colour is also associated with emotion, most people would say that green is jealous and blue is sad, for example. But we also must note that the colours are numbers and letters to this person. In the second house, there were numbers in different colours on the child's chalkboard, it was written by our killer. Get a handwriting analysis. Seven is green, so is F. Victim one was covered in green paint at number 7, Fergusson Street. Number two was at number 5, Sandra lane. Both 5, S , and the victim were red. And blue at 2 Blake Ave. So from the chalkboard, yellow is nine, eight is dark red, one is white, four is purple, and six is, strangely, missing. What emotions do we associate with this? Yellow, happy, dark red, passion, red, anger, white; John, help me out, I'm not the best with emotions."

"Uh, confusion, innocence, and… power?" Why was _he _being asked?

"Innocence isn't an emotion," Sherlock frowned.

"Like _you'd _know, freak," Sally sneered.

"Shut up, Sally," Lestrade said before Sherlock or John could beat him to it. Seeing the DI scolding her was quite satisfying, and they agreed on this with a glance at each other, followed by a small smile.

"Right, um," John struggled for the words. "What if white isn't an emotion at all? It could just… I don't know. Don't listen to me."

He didn't know how he ended up with Sherlock's thin hands gripping his arms tightly, but the detective's eyes were very close to his, and _wow_ that was a spectacular colour, he didn't even know what that _was_. "Shut up, John. Go on."

Pretending that there was nothing paradoxical about that sentence, John swallowed thickly, but did continue. "Uh, well, I was just thinking that…. Maybe white isn't any emotion. Maybe it's the lack of emotion, like, dullness or something."

Sherlock released him, face alight with the sort of juvenile delight he got when something insurmountably interesting had just occurred. "John Hamish Watson, you are _brilliant!_"

Anderson looked skeptically at the two of them. "Remind me again why this matters?"

"Lestrade, I do encourage you to find some officers that aren't complete dimwits. If they can't keep up, it's through no fault of my own. Anderson, for your own moronic, nonexistent intellect, here is a recap. Colours, emotions, colours, numbers, colours, street-names. The murderer knew each of them well enough to have that emotion towards them, had synesthesia, you have his handwriting. That should be enough to catch him. Good night, Lestrade! Donovan, Anderson, you can be bitten by plague rats and die a horrible death."

John followed Sherlock as he bounced off, exuberant with accomplishment.

"That was a splendid case, don't you think?" Sherlock asked him upon their arrival at 221B.

"And to think, that the great Sherlock Holmes actually ate a meal in between!" John faked astonishment.

What he got in return was a good-natured glare, before Sherlock turned and bounded up the stairs at top speed, coat trailing behind him. "Coming?" he called from their doorway.

John shook his head, smiling, and headed up the steps. It had been a good day.

* * *

_AN: I don't go out for Italian food all that often. Can you tell?_

_Okay so that took a while to update, but we're not all extreme-typists like my friend Tazia here. My inspiration comes in short bursts, unless I've been threatened with one of my co-author's death glares._

_Anyway, here's a nice chapter for y'all to enjoy, written just by me. Questions, comments, concerns, and praise all go to the comments or PM. Cake if you review!_

_-ticklethedragon1_


End file.
